


The Driver of the Screw

by jujubiest



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Destiel - Freeform, Superwholock, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:52:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/pseuds/jujubiest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their way to see a man about a murder, Sam and Dean Winchester stop in at The Idler Wheel cafe for a "pick-me-up"...that is, Dean is drawn in by the cheeky signboard out front, and Sam goes along because his brother will not be dissuaded. And that's how Dean Winchester met the barista, Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Driver of the Screw

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment. I want to see what happens if I start from something completely random and just go with it without planning out every detail from the get-go. That means that I have no idea if or when this will be updated, how frequently, or what direction the story will take. I'll do my best to keep the tags updated with characters, relationships, and possible triggers as I go along, but if you go into this story, just bear in mind that it makes absolutely no promises of being finished, being happy, being good, or being anything at all, really. It's my vacation from deadlines and expectations.

“Woah, hang on, Sammy,” Dean said, putting out a hand to stop his big galumph of a brother. Sam stopped short and scowled down at him, the classic preemption to yet another lecture.

“Dean, we’re already running late. You know how he gets when you make him wait.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said. He’d heard this one before. “Knowing him we’ll get there right on time and he’ll make us sit around being quiet for twenty minutes while he’s sifting through his brain castle—”

“It’s a mind palace.”

“Whatever. That guy gives me the creeps. If I’m gonna have to put up with him for hours on end, I’m gonna need a pick-me-up.” He nodded to the coffee shop just ahead. Sam’s eyes scanned the menu sign out front, and he groaned.

“Dude, seriously—hey!” Dean wasn’t listening; he was already ten steps ahead, making a beeline for the door. Sam bounded forward, hissing at him as he went.

“Really? You’re gonna make us late so you can pick up whatever schmuck was desperate enough to write that?”

“That’d be me,” said a voice. Sam and Dean stopped and turned to see a man that could only be described as unfairly good-looking lounging behind a sandwich counter. He grinned widely and looked them both up and down with such obvious intent that Sam felt like he was in one of those dreams where you suddenly realize you’re running around completely naked. He blushed. Dean just grinned back.

“Well, that’s too bad,” he said cheerfully. “No offense man, you’re not bad. Pretty hot, actually, but you’re not my type.” The man behind the counter shrugged.

“Double the misfortune for you, because I’m taken at the moment. I wrote that,” he gestured towards the door behind them and the sign, “for him.” Dean followed the movement of the man’s hand, scanning down to the end of the coffee bar in the back of the shop. There was a man standing there, taking a couple’s order. He was square-shouldered, lean and tall, but not a freak of nature like Sam…maybe Dean had an inch on him. He had short, messy dark hair and sharp, straight features. When he looked up from counting out the couple’s change, Dean saw that his eyes were a startling shade of blue.

“Alright,” he said, face slipping into an almost predatory grin. “That’s more like it.”

As he sauntered up to the coffee bar, Sam turned his most potent bitch face toward the man behind the sandwich counter.

“Thanks a lot,” he said sarcastically. “Now we’re never getting out of here.” Mr. I’m-Taken-At-The-Moment just smiled wider.

“Well, that’s too bad. But I’m sure we can find something to talk about to pass the time.” He pushed himself up from his languid position, stepped out from behind the counter, and offered Sam a hand to shake.

“The name’s Jack. And who might you be?”

* * *

 

Most of the weirdest days in Castiel’s life seem to start with his business partner-slash-roommate-slash-best friend making a misguided attempt at helping him out. Today was no exception.

He should have suspected something when Jack offered to open the store. Jack _never_ offered to come in earlier than he had to, especially on a Monday, and usually Castiel didn’t mind. He was an early riser anyway. But he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. He kept waking up from the strangest dreams—not quite nightmares, but not entirely pleasant either. He could never remember what he’d been dreaming about when he woke up, and he could never go back to sleep.

Simply put, Castiel was tired. So he let Jack open the store, and set up for the lunch rush to boot…which gave Jack the opportunity to put up the ridiculous and utterly humiliating sign that made Dean Winchester decide to waltz in and ask for his number.

This was a habit he had: he liked to trace things back to their source. He did it with events, conversations, everything. Sometimes he did it with his own thoughts, digging obsessively through layers of random segues and chains of logic and illogic until he could remember how he went from tallying up his drawer totals to wondering whether human beings were the only creatures who asked questions about the nature of their maker.

He knew what led him to the moment when a strange man started chatting him up under the pretense of ordering coffee. He still had no idea what had possessed him to write his number down when Dean asked for it.

 

“Can I take your order?” Castiel didn’t look up when the man approached. It wasn’t good customer service, but then again they were selling coffee, not people skills. Most of their customers were used to him by now, anyway, and they kept coming back.

This guy, though, ducked down and leaned in to prop his arms on the countertop, giving Castiel an eyeful of sun-kissed skin and full lips parted in a white smile, square jaw, sandy hair, mirthful green eyes and a haphazard smattering of freckles across an incongruously delicate nose. Castiel took a deep breath; he wasn’t used to people intruding upon his space, and he found this man’s easy proximity…strangely pleasant. Which was unnerving.

“Hi,” the man said and _oh_ , his voice was unexpectedly deep and a little husky, like he smoked or spent a lot of time shouting. But it was a friendly voice, with something warm bubbling underneath the surface. Castiel found himself smiling without meaning to.

“Hello,” he said amiably. “Can I get you something?”

The man’s eyebrows quirked dangerously at that, and Castiel’s stomach flipped. He blushed, feeling like he’d told a dirty joke without meaning to. The man just smiled wider.

“I’m Dean,” he said, ignoring Castiel’s previous question entirely, and try as he might to resist, Castiel smiled even wider. His face was starting to hurt, but he couldn’t help it. Castiel liked things that fit, and…Dean. The name suited him perfectly, somehow. It was bright and to the point.

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” he offered, feeling both utterly flummoxed and oddly at ease. “Would you like to try our Americano? You don’t seem like a person who bothers with cream and flavored syrup in their coffee.”

Castiel thought he caught a twitch of something next to Dean’s eyes, for just a second. Surprise, maybe? Then the lazy grin was back and Dean chuckled a little. It was a dark sound, and it pulled at Castiel in ways he couldn’t begin to understand because for goodness sake, he’d just met this man, quite literally, a minute ago!

“Yeah…not in my coffee,” Dean offered significantly. Castiel once again felt like he’d accidentally said something incredibly inappropriate, except that this time it felt more like a joke he and Dean were in on together. He returned the laugh without trying and watched Dean’s eyes flicker again, another split second of not-quite-surprise before the charming smile returned. This time, it looked both softer and cooler than before, less put-on in a way that made Castiel think he’d done something right, though he had no idea what.

He suddenly realized that he was leaning in, body gravitating across the counter in Dean’s direction. He straightened and cleared his throat.

“So…one Americano, coming right up!” And what in God’s name? Since when did he talk like a sitcom cliché?

“That’s great, thanks,” Dean said, and Castiel turned to busy himself with making Dean’s order. He could feel the man’s eyes on his back all the same, following his every movement. He felt pinned down by that gaze, and it thrilled him.

He was done making Dean’s coffee much faster than he wanted to be, and had to turn around and face him again. Dean had straightened up, standing like a respectable customer should, but there was nothing respectable about the way his fingers slid over the back of Castiel’s hand as he handed over the coffee. Castiel stared at that hand as though it had sprouted a mouth that would presently reveal the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa.

“Thanks,” Dean said again. He didn’t move away though, just stood there, until finally Castiel looked reluctantly up at him.

“Was there something else you needed, Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean said softly. “I’d love to know your name.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “Castiel. I’m Castiel.” And there it was again, Dean’s face splitting into a wide grin so bright it hurt to look. Castiel couldn’t look away.

“Castiel,” Dean repeated. “Well, Cas, you think I could get a number to go with that?”

“A…you want my phone number?” Castiel really didn’t know what to do with this day, with this man and his complete flouting of all the rules of coffee shop etiquette. You come to the counter, you place your order, you take your coffee, you pay, you leave. What kind of person was Dean Winchester, anyway? Clearly he wasn’t a nice, normal person. Nice, normal people didn’t mercilessly flirt with helpless, painfully awkward baristas. Did they?

“You can always say no, Cas,” Dean said, and he tried to make it sound like a joke. He really did. But Castiel could hear it: Dean really hoped he wouldn’t say no. And God help him, for some reason Castiel didn’t want to dash those hopes.

He grabbed a napkin from the dispenser behind him and a pen from the tip cup and scribbled his name and number down hastily, handing it over without looking at Dean again. He was blushing again, and really hating himself for it.

Dean’s fingers curled around his as he took the piece of paper, and something curled up inside Castiel at the same time, something hungry and dangerous.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said. “Listen, my brother and me, we got some things to do today, but I’m gonna call you tonight, alright?”

“Okay,” Castiel said, not knowing what else to say.

“Okay,” Dean smiled. “Good. Talk to you soon!”

And he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> "The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw,  
> and whipping cords will serve you more than ropes will ever do."  
> \- Fiona Apple


End file.
